That Saved a Wretch Like Me
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: A five times-one time fic about Thursday and Morse. Thursday cares for Morse, and Morse returns the favor. Most of it is probably fluffy, and Morse gets to eat something for once. No ships, just bromance. Rated T because of blood and stuff later on.
1. Chapter 1

**That Saved a Wretch Like Me: Chapter One**

_Another request from my lovely routine! This time for a five times-one time fic with Thursday and Morse. These two are my absolute favorite detective bromance, so I hope you enjoy as much as I do!_

In the dead of winter, the coldest winter in ten years to ever hit Oxford, the heating at Cowley CID broke.

Everyone was suffering, but Morse was actually starting to feel a bit sick from his exposure to the cold, inside and out. The other constables and sergeants drank endless cups of tea and cocoa, knocking off work whenever they could to head home and rest in the warmth. Morse, however, did no such thing.

Used to working long hours, anyway (mostly because of his work as bagman while still having general duties), he was spending long hours in the unheated station, which only got colder when everyone had gone home for the evening. If Morse wasn't so horrified by gore, he might be amused by the mental image he got of his fingers cracking off like icicles as he sat at his typewriter. His fingers were almost the same iridescent blue as they were, anyway. He had considered buying gloves, but he always forgot.

One day, wrapped in his winter coat and shivering badly, Morse couldn't take it any longer. He felt like he was about to be physically ill he was shivering so badly. Morse left his desk to take advantage of the hot beverages served in the station. When he got to the kettle, however, he found it empty, the pipes frozen. Morse groaned in frustration and wandered back to his desk, jealous of Jakes, who was contentedly sipping coffee so hot, it was still steaming, who was smirking at him.

In fact, Jakes stopped smirking once Morse had turned his back. The DC was looking pale and ashen, and even Jakes, who had to admit his jealousy of Morse, didn't have the heart to jibe him. While More was usually a fast typist, fingers flying over the keys, today he could barely get through a line in under a minute. Jakes looked away, not in the habit of looking after his fellow policemen, and secretly hoping Thursday would notice.

Thursday's office was slightly warmer than the rest of the station, thanks to a convenient window that got quite a bit of sun during the day. And he had his pipe, which warmed him better than anything. He had been lost in his musings, having just finished up his lunch, when he noticed Morse walking back to his desk looking quite miserable. Thursday sighed. He had to admit that he was worried about the lad. Morse's slight frame couldn't hold weight well, and he was looking quite a bit thinner of late. Thursday hadn't ever seen the boy touch food, though Morse's stomach never voiced complaint that he could hear. Being the father that he was, Thursday had already taken Morse under his wing. What was one more kid to look after? And Morse certainly needed it, poor lad. He'd just been looking for the right moment to intervene. Seemed his time was now.

Thursday rose, joints creaking in the cold, and opened his door. A cold rush of air hit him, and it occurred to him just how cold it was out here. He noticed Morse hunched over and shivering in his chair, unable to even type now. The lad's lips and fingers were blue, even, from the chill, and Thursday felt fatherly concern bite him in the arse.

Thursday strode up to Morse's desk. The slender DC looked up, his teeth chattering badly, and sat up a bit straighter, stammering out a hesitant, "Sir." His 's' sounded like a snake's hiss, he was trembling so badly.

"Come on lad, up you come," Thursday said in his fatherly tone; gruff that would not be disobeyed, but gentle and welcoming all the same. "You could use something warming. Can't have my bagman turning into a snowman, can I?"

Morse smiled weakly and stood stiffly, ready to follow Thursday's lead as always. As they walked through the station, Morse noticed the stares were slightly more sympathetic than they usually were when he acted as Thursday's bagman. Even Bright, sitting stiff as if he was frozen in his office, nodded approvingly. Morse was too cold to be confused or touched. He followed behind Thursday, minding the ice on the steps of the CID.

Thursday led them to a pub. He sat Morse down in a booth closest to the radiator and ordered a round of whiskey. That would be a start in warming the poor lad.

After Thursday left, Morse huddled into an exhausted heap, still shivering even as he was blasted with hot air. He felt cold all the way into his bones, and the heat hardly seemed to be helping. He only realized he'd dozed off when Thursday touched his shoulder and passed him a glass of whiskey. "Here you are, lad," he said gently. "Get that down you."

Morse nodded and tried to sit up a little straighter. Holding the mug with both hands, he lifted it to his lips and drank. The sting of whiskey in his throat helped immensely, and he felt the warmth spread throughout him as it reached his stomach. He couldn't help giving a soft sigh of contentment as he eagerly drained the rest. As he set the mug down, he felt better. The heat was finally starting to sink into his bones, and the whiskey gave him a pleasant buzz. "Thank you, Sir," he said, looking a bit sleepy to Thursday's trained eye. "I owe you one."

Thursday raised a hand in casual acknowledgement. "Another round?" He asked.

Morse nodded, reaching into his pocket. "Easy, lad," Thursday replied with a chuckle. "Just owe me two and sit still a bit, won't you?"

Morse nodded, unable to complain, and Thursday wondered as he walked to the bar when exactly he'd started thinking of Morse as something of a second son.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The case had been going on for about a week now, and the police at Cowley CID were getting no closer to a solution, even with Morse working tirelessly day and night to find a solution.

Thursday's mind should've been on the case, but instead, he was focused on his bagman. Morse seemed to have slightly less energy as the days wore on. Oh, yes, he still threw himself into his work with the same nervous energy, following up leads and questioning suspects without losing an eyelash, but at other times, he was…slacking. Thursday had caught him staring into space more than once, and if that wasn't bad enough, he was no longer responsive when he came to drive Thursday into work in the mornings. Sure, he smiled politely, but he did little else. He didn't even acknowledge Joan's flirting or Sam's jibing. He just robotically went through the motions, or so it seemed.

Morse still drank at the watering hole, but Thursday had begun to notice that the lad's cheekbones and jawline were starting to stand out, his eyes sunken with bruise-like shadows underneath. And God, was he starting to get thin. Morse had been slender before, but his clothes were starting to hang off him badly, so that he looked mostly clothes. The coat helped, of course, but still. Whenever he took it off, Thursday was reminded of how positively unhealthy Morse looked.

It seemed Morse's body was starting to give up on him, too. Early into the second week of the case, nervous energy from Morse began to grind steadily to a halt. It started with the pen tapping.

Morse had a nervous habit of tapping his pen against his desk, typewriter, or other available surfaces (even his head, which was amusing at times) when he was thinking hard. That habit stopped, and though several DCs and DSs were happy about that (the tapping was annoying), Thursday was worried.

It was only a day or so before Morse stopped prancing around energetically at crime scenes and at witness interviews. He looked tired, overworked, with no color to his cheeks. He'd lost enough weight that his jacket now hung badly off his shoulders, his trousers sagging. Thursday felt he needed to remedy the situation immediately before Morse starved to death. There was only one thing he could think of.

Without explanation, Thursday told Morse to drive him home. It was getting on four in the evening, about the time Win started dinner, which was Thursday's master plan. As it happened, he didn't need to explain. Morse nodded and drove him obediently home and parked outside the house.

"I can wait here," he said, voice quiet as he stared straight ahead.

"Win will be upset if you stay out here," Thursday placated. "Come on, lad."

Morse huffed, but obediently roused himself and followed Thursday to the door. The DI opened the door and sniffed hopefully. Count on his stable Win to have dinner cooking! It made his stomach growl, even though he'd eaten a proper lunch. Morse wouldn't be able to resist.

As Thursday removed his coat, he watched the young detective. Morse stood just inside the doorway, staring down at his shoes, hands deep in his pockets. He couldn't get a proper look at the lad like that, but he could see Morse swallow visibly.

Quite suddenly, Morse's stomach complained audibly.

DI Thursday hid a smile of triumph as Morse flushed pink all the way to his ears. It was the most color he'd shown in days, and a light seemed to flick on in his bright blue eyes.

"Sorry, Sir," he said quickly, sounding as humiliated as he looked. He pulled his coat around him, as if trying to disappear. More likely, it was to keep further complaints from his obviously empty stomach muffled in fabric, but he wasn't running. Thursday couldn't decide if it was because he was reluctant to or because he didn't have the strength.

The DI realized he must've let the silence go too long. Morse picked his head up and blinked quizzically at Thursday. "What did we even come here for? Sir." The title was an afterthought, and Thursday wasn't imagining the boy swaying on his feet.

"Go and sit before you pass out, lad," Thursday said gently, wondering if he was crossing a line. But if he was, Morse was too tired to complain. He tottered into the sitting room and sat down on the couch there. Within a few minutes, he was sleeping deeply.

_Poor lad_, thought Thursday, just as his wife pattered in.

"Home early, Fred?" She asked, kissing his cheek. "I thought I heard Morse."

"He's asleep in the sitting room, pet," Thursday replied, kissing her back.

"Oh dear," Win gasped, and Thursday could tell she was remembering the last time the lad had passed out on their couch. "Is he hurt?"

"Not as badly as that," Thursday reassured her. "Just worn out, and hungry as anything. I heard his stomach before."

"Poor boy," Win cooed, and Thursday couldn't hide his smile. "He'll have to stay for supper. You'll make sure he does?"

"It's not any extra bother for you, is it?" He asked. "The lad will never forgive me if he's underfoot here."

"Muming is never a bother for me," Win replied. "You just make sure he has a good sleep. I'll see to it that he gets a good meal in him."

"You're a wonder, Win," Thursday replied, kissing her cheek.

It was an hour or so before Morse woke again. Thursday was smoking his pipe, reading the paper, and the smells of dinner were really quite permeating now.

As Morse groaned into life, Thursday set down his paper. "Welcome back, Morse," he teased. "Feeling any better?"

"Yes. Sorry, Sir," Morse stood up quickly. "I'll go back to the station, and-" But his movements were too quick for running on so little fuel, and he wobbled badly before regaining his balance. Thursday had moved to catch him instinctively, and now stood towering over the boy, using his height and weight to their full advantage.

"You'll do no such thing," he said firmly. "You're staying."

More looked horrified. "Sir, I would never intrude."

"You are no more trouble to look after than Sam or Joan," Thursday replied. "In fact, in some ways, you're more trouble. Hey," This was to stop Morse was trying to sneak around him. "I heard your stomach before. When's the last time you had anything to eat?"

Morse seemed to think a minute, but instead, he wobbled again and sat down, seemingly giving up. Thursday wasn't about to press the question, and suddenly, Morse looked much older than he was. He ran his face through his hands with a sigh, but didn't answer. "Since last week," he said at last. "Before the case. At least. I don't remember."

Thursday clucked his tongue, glad Win hadn't been the one asking. She might mum the boy too much and scare him off. "You're certainly staying for dinner in that case," he said. Morse made no further arguments, though he seemed to look better and better as the dinner continued to cook.

Supper consisted of only the three of them, as Sam and Joan were both out tonight. A hearty broth was the start, followed by thick, overstuffed shepherd's pie. Morse ate politely, wishing he was alone. His stomach ached with hunger, and all of his muscles screamed for proper rest. The past week seemed like a daze, and Morse was plagued with a headache whenever he tried to focus. He could remember now that by Wednesday of last week, his stomach had begun to complain of hunger. He'd ignored it, of course, thinking the case would be over by week's end. It wasn't, and starving all this time hadn't been good for his job performance, regardless of the hours he put in.

Even eating slowly, he still finished before his boss and his wife. He was still very hungry, but he felt well enough to venture home and rest. He could look at the case with a fresh mind tomorrow.

He was about to excuse himself when he found another slice of the meat pie on his plate. Hunger overcame him, and he devoured it in seconds, blushing afterwards. In that way, he finished off most of the pie, and went home with a full stomach instead of an empty one.

The very next day, the case was solved, thanks to Morse. He felt a little shy around Thursday, but the DI was silent on what had happened yesterday, thankfully.

Morse brought Thursday a round, figuring he owed him more than two future rounds for that favor.


End file.
